


House Party

by rageprufrock



Series: Drastically Redefining Protocol [8]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-05
Updated: 2016-02-05
Packaged: 2018-05-18 10:53:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5925808
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rageprufrock/pseuds/rageprufrock
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Merlin and Arthur go to a country house party -- a never-completed extra from the DRP universe, set between the proposal and the wedding. Abandoned WIP.</p>
            </blockquote>





	House Party

Arthur said, "What a _total waste of time_ ," the same time Merlin chirped, "That'd be _brilliant_ ," at which point they were left staring at one another awkwardly over Hunith's kitchen table.In the sitting room, through the doorway, the Christmas tree was still blinking obnoxiously and there wasn't really a floor anymore, just an ocean of destroyed gift wrapping and ribbon, and a number of abandoned paper crowns Arthur had forbidden from appearing at the breakfast table.

"You actually _want_ to go?" Arthur demanded, and Merlin unhinged his jaw in a way that composed his features into a pout — only more tragic and wronged — as he said:

"You don't?"

Hunith became fascinated with her tea. 

"It's — Merlin, it's a bloody house party," Arthur said, trying to sound reasonable and obviously falling short, if the way Merlin became somehow even more hurt-looking was to be believed. 

"I've never been to one," Merlin argued.

"I've been to many," Arthur retorted."In fact, I broke my arm at one."

"Oh, he knows," Hunith interrupted sweetly."He saw it on the telly and cried all day."

***

It wasn't that Arthur really doubted Merlin's attachment to him — it was both too early and too late for that sort of second guessing — but he always relished the accidental revelations of Merlin's fondness, something about the unexpected moment being sweeter.  Besides which, there was something tremendously endearing in the idea of a boy with dark, wild hair, crying horribly in front of a battered telly because Arthur was stupid enough to get thrown off of a pony and break his arm.

"Did you _really_  cry?" he asked, very reasonably.

"I was five.  It was upsetting," Merlin said, still blushing from his perch in the passenger seat, determinedly staring out at the passing scenery.  

Arthur snorted.  "Yeah, but.   _Crying_."

"Hi, the newsreaders just said you'd been in an accident," Merlin retorted,  obviously annoyed now and probably just a few more barbs away from swatting Arthur anywhere he could reach.  

"But you didn't even know me," Arthur argued, passing an ancient fucking Volvo out of sheer spite and ignoring the disapproving look Merlin gave him at it.  One did not purchase an Aston Martin to drive it slowly.  "And you were _five_.  What if I got into an accident now?  You'd be inconsolable."

"Unlikely," Merlin told him, too lightly, "as I have since met you and come away from the experience fairly unimpressed."

Arthur glared at him from the corner of his eyes.  "Is that so."

Merlin grinned at him, half-hidden behind the wide turtleneck of his gray jumper and the flipped-up collar on his peacoat, and still blushing at him. The word "fetching" traipsed through Arthur's head in a manner so below his station he briefly considered driving off the road and killing himself in one of the frost-covered fields.

"Actually, I'd probably resort of anonymous sex instead of crying now," he said solemnly.  "Of course, at the speed you like to drive, any accident will leave you dead somewhere, so I doubt you'll mind when I let ugly drunk men have rough sex with me in pub alleys."

Arthur scowled and eased his foot off the gas.  "Right," he muttered.

"Thank you," Merlin said primly.

The Volvo passed them, and the man at the wheel, grizzled beard wagging, actually gave Arthur the finger.

"Did you see that!" he exploded, clutching the wheel and glowering around at Merlin, who appeared shockingly unmoved.  "Did you see?"

"Yes," Merlin said, deadpan.  "Obviously I'm furious, too."

Arthur glared where, just under the wings of Merlin's collarbones, he knew hanging on a cheap gold chain was an astronomically expensive gold ring with an embarrassingly sappy Welsh inscription on it.

"I can take that back, you know," he warned, because he could, in theory, do such a thing.  Although, if he thought it through, it had taken so fucking long for him to find the right set of circumstances — read: build up the courage — to give the damn ring to him it would be a shame to rescind the offer so quickly.  Maybe he would take it back in a few months or possibly several decades.

"Again, so inconsolable, violent sex with strangers would be the only recourse left for me," Merlin told him sweetly, and began fiddling with the iPod in the car dock.

"Fuck," Arthur muttered, and kept below the speed limit.

***

One of the enduring delights of shagging Merlin was watching him discover otherwise asinine elements of Arthur's life and find them remarkable.  For example, state dinners, which Arthur thought were slightly less enjoyable than being set on fire, were an endless joy for Merlin, or Trooping the Color, which Arthur found _fucking intolerable_ and Merlin found _magical_.  

So all things considered, Arthur should have known that Merlin would find the idea of a country house party irresistible.  After all, this was a man who had no social life and owned every single Jilly Cooper book ever written, including three separate copies of _Rivals_.

"We don't have to go," Merlin said peevishly, sipping tea disdainfully at the scarred breakfast table at the nut factory.

Arthur stared back at him.  "Is that so," he said flatly.

"Of course not," Merlin said, feigning astonishment poorly.  "If you don't want to go, then naturally, we won't go."

Translated from Merlin into common English, Arthur heard: _if you're going to be a right wanker and do something to deliberately cause my unhappiness, then fine, so be it._   Out loud, he repeated, "Is that so."

"Of course," Merlin said, taking another sullen sip of tea.  "we'll just stay in London.  For New Years.  It will make it more easy for the paparazzi to find us and talk about how you're probably shagging that 14-year-old next door — "

"Michael is 23," Arthur cut in.

" — and that is perfectly fine," Merlin concluded.  "For both of us."

Arthur resisted the urge to claw at his own face.  "I already RSVPed," he growled, and Merlin didn't even pretend toward coyness, not even for a minute, just grinning wide and bright and _so ridiculously spoiled_  before abandoning his tea and climbing into Arthur's lap. 

"You're my favorite," Merlin crooned, pressing kisses all over Arthur's chin.  "If you ever die, I promise I will swear celibacy and wail like a paid mourner at your funeral and try to fling myself into the grave."

"Ugh," Arthur said, trying to pry Merlin off of him.

"I'll wear half-mourning the rest of my life," Merlin promised, but at least he stopped trying to be affectionate, which Arthur felt was sufficiently expressed and reciprocated by the fact that (1) Arthur had RSVPed for this near-guaranteed shitshow and (2) had not yet shoved Merlin out of his lap and onto the icy floor.

Arthur said, "Right, thanks, Queen Victoria," and reached around Merlin for the Times.

"Learn how to say 'no' to Merlin," was among Arthur's private list of New Year's resolutions, although it seemed like one of the least likely to materialize as a reality, Arthur reflected glumly.  Historically, he had a totally pants track record when it came to that sort of thing, and there was no anecdotal evidence of things taking a turn for the better, either.  He'd been gaining some ground, at least, but then they'd gone to Santorini and in the airport bathroom while Merlin was throwing up all the shellfish he'd ever eaten in this and past lives, Arthur had foolishly _proposed,_ which had launched him backward in terms of progress by several months at least when Merlin had said "yes."

Except Merlin just snatched the newspaper out of Arthur's hands and looked and looked at him, hands warm on Arthur's face, and he said, "I would, you know, wear half-mourning," and Arthur wouldn't help the smile that curled at the corners of his mouth.

"Don't, Merlin," he scolded, and leaned into say against Merlin's lips, "You'll start the Victorian Era all over again."

***

Exactly four people in the world knew about the ring around Merlin's neck.  

They were (1) Arthur, since he'd paid for it, (2) Merlin, since he'd accepted it with his usual lack of grace, (3) Everett, since he'd mocked Arthur horribly over it and then as punishment had been forced to make the actual purchase, and (4) Rosa, who had a limited amount of time left to figure out how to sell this to the population at large.  

The public's first memory of Merlin was a necessary debacle that Arthur doesn't want repeated, a sentiment he's expressed to Rosa at length, and in private, ignoring her eye-rolling and accusations of paternalistic behavior.  She was probably right, but that had never stopped Arthur before, besides which, Arthur could see no circumstance in which involving Merlin in a public relations decision wouldn't end in total tragedy.  

Rosa thought it might be easiest if nothing was done officially, people would gradually get used to the idea of Merlin and Arthur together and their combined status would the status quo and beyond anybody's interest or discussion.  Arthur thought that plan was perfectly crap, besides which, he didn't like the idea of living in half measures, and what was the point of a ring if he didn't intend to _do_  anything about it.

"So what you're telling me is that you're completely unwilling compromise," Rosa said.

"When it comes to this, that is a correct interpretation," Arthur allowed.

Rosa favored Arthur with a narrow-eyed look.  "You realize if this continues as you wish, he _will_  have to make allowances eventually."

"Until then," Arthur said, losing interest in the discussion, "make sure the concessions are limited to our side of the table."

"Purposefully difficult," Rosa sighed.

"Oh, you'll love this then: we're going to Edgar's county house party," Arthur told her, rising to his feet and trying not to feel too entirely gleeful at her gobsmacked expression.

"As in, Edgar, the Viscount of Saxonbury," Rosa said.

"As in, Merlin has read too much Jilly Cooper," Arthur continued, checking his watch.  "And as in, I'm supposed to meet him at the nut factory in 20 minutes to head off."

Rosa continued to look as if all the wind had gotten knocked out of her.  "You're _deliberately_ agreeing to spend time with Edgar?"

"Trust me, no one is more surprised by this turn than I," Arthur said sympathetically and reached for his coat.

The drive back to the nut factory was uneventful, and the snarl of traffic made him just late enough that when Merlin climbed into the V12 Vantage he was only tipping over toward sullen behavior, and not yet at full-tilt pout.  

"I am, being generous and rounding _up_ , five minutes late," Arthur said.

"Four and a half minutes I spent thinking you were trying to find a way out of going on a minibreak with me," Merlin retorted.

Arthur sighed, stretching his fingers inside the fine leather of his driving gloves, still cracking and stiff and smelling new, a Christmas present from Hunith, because she was by far the best Emrys he knew.  He waited until a number of uglier vehicles passed before merging into traffic, and said, "Merlin, this is not a minibreak — this is a trainwreck in slow motion."

Suitably disinterested in the reality of the situation, Merlin's eyes gleamed and he asked, "Who else do you think will be there?"

"Horrid people," Arthur answered quickly.

"I reckon the house will be gorgeous," Merlin said, sounding wistful.

Glowering, Arthur asked, "I'm sorry, Merlin, am I to believe that the royal households have been a _disappointment?_ "

"Well," Merlin said, probably shooting for diplomacy and falling far, far short, "not Kensington?"

"Jesus Christ," Arthur muttered, and bracing himself for Merlin's constant bitching, shifted from fourth into third, dropped his foot onto the accelerator, and felt the car lose touch with gravity.

***

The absolute _best_  part of the Aston Martin V12 Vantage was obviously that Arthur owned one.  The second being that it was heartrendingly gorgeous in profile, with its louvered bonnet and carbon fiber front and rear air dams, gracefully divoting the clean, silver-sleek lines, banked by skirts from Aston racing.  Arthur had confirmed its top speed of just over 300 kilometers an hour and 0-60 acceleration time of 4.1 seconds — 4 seconds, he swears, just that once, on that back road when the asphalt was dry and no one else was around — himself.

Arthur loved London, although he hated driving in it, and he didn't feel his shoulders loosen until he went round the roundabout at Hogarth Lane and pulled onto the M4, feeling the car purr approvingly underneath his hands.

Merlin stayed awake long enough to whine in reproach about how Arthur was going to get both of them killed one day before tipping against the passenger seat window , eyes drifting shut.  He'd worked doubles most of the days that week, with half the hospital staff out on holiday or at home with sick children, and Arthur couldn't decide if he was pleased by the fact Merlin wasn't receiving any special treatment or irritated by it.  

Pediatric emergency remained, in Arthur's opinion, the absolute worst possible place for Merlin to expend his liberally bleeding heart, but they'd already had that argument at fucking Royal Ascot of all places and he had no desire to reprise it, or the various and increasingly terrible pep talks Morgana had felt obligated to bestow upon him during the immediate aftermath.  It was a funny thing to Arthur, and always had been, how little control he had over his own destiny and how at the same time, he could be huge and endless and massive, like a black hole with all other elements bending around him.

Merlin, oddly, seemed mostly immune.  He remained completely hopeless and inappropriate and despite endless coaching and etiquette lessons, Alistair still got the vapors at the mere thought of Merlin being near a state event.  And even if Arthur disagreed with how Merlin appeared to desire constant heartbreak and angst, he was glad Merlin did disagree, and remain determined on that point, because at least it meant whenever Merlin _did_  agree with him (which was rare), it was genuine.

And then the sun was heavy in the cold sky, flaring golden off of the windshield, and Arthur had sunglasses to find and long, mostly-empty road to burn and the prospect of trying to quantify his complex and dizzying feelings for the idiot in the passenger seat seemed a bit dangerous on top of driving, so he limited himself to one final, not-at-all-fond, "moron," and reached for his glove box.

Merlin had bought him the sunglasses at Spitalfields last year, during one of their incognito excursions, which usually meant following Merlin into all manner of filth and discomfort, and one day, Arthur was going to put a stop to it.  The glasses themselves were downmarket aviators, and Arthur would have protested when Merlin put them on his face, except that at that moment Merlin had been wearing an outrageously coy black fascinator, nestled in his dark curls, and it had just seemed more expedient to buy both of them together before Merlin could protest.

The countryside was silent and gray-green on either side of the asphalt ribbon of road, limned in blue-gold from the mid-afternoon sun, and Arthur rested one elbow on the window ledge and drove with his fingertips, easy, feeling the car purr beneath his touch.  

He rolled down a window, just a sliver, and let the high, thin shriek of wind blow back his hair, and Arthur grinned and dropped out of second gear into third, because whatever slightly illegal speed Merlin didn't _know_  he was traveling at couldn't hurt him.

***

Merlin's reaction to Edgar's estate was threefold:

(1) Staring, sputtering in a manner unfitting for someone who'd been spending a significant amount of time (a) at Clarence House, the official residences of the crown prince, for Christ's sake, (b) Kensington Palace, which is where Arthur elected to hide because his father elected to hide at Buckingham, and (c) being whisked away by private jets to Rock in Cornwall, where for some reason Merlin had not been inclined to gawk.

(2) After a few moments with his jaw hanging open, Merlin ambulated the  oval plot of grass in the middle of the the courtyard, yelling indistinctly over it while a several of Edgar's servants bussed Arthur and Merlin's luggage to their third-floor suite and favored Arthur with worried glances.  Arthur felt their pity deserved, since he'd publicly shackled himself to the idiot currently going on and on about _grass_.  On a _walkway_.

(3) It was a sufficient distraction from the fact that they had arrived about an hour ahead of schedule, which was enough of an incentive that Arthur decided to indulge Merlin his antics if it prevented some sort of shouting match about how he was an unsafe driver.

"It's amazing," Merlin breathed, finally circling back around to Arthur and latching onto him, and Arthur was careful to slide his hand down the inside of Merlin's forearm and lace their fingers together, lest Merlin wander off and be lost on the grounds.  "This is all the Viscount's?"

"Oh, God," Arthur groaned, tugging Merlin toward the entry of the house, "don't, under any circumstances call him that, he'll be _insufferable_."

Merlin made a face.  "What should I call him, then?  He _is_  a viscount."

"And _I_  am the Duke of Cornwall," Arthur pointed out." _And_ the Prince of Wales."

"That's different," Merlin argued.  "I've seen _you_  naked."

"Your logic, it astonishes me," Arthur sighed.  "Just call him Edgar."

He wished Merlin wasn't going to have to call Edgar anything at _all_ , since Edgar was a bully and a twat and the hours Arthur had been forced to spend in his company were some of the least enjoyable he could remember _._ The only good thing about Edgar at all was his Gloucestershire estate, and the fact that it was expansive enough that Arthur could probably vanish into some half-derelict dovecote and the bloody house party would be half over before anybody found him.

A butler met them, and after the usual exchange of pleasantries — "Your highness," and "Sneed," and "Um, your name is Sneed?" and "Shut up, Merlin" — they were shown to their  rooms on the second floor — well-appointed in fawn and soft green and cream.

Merlin spent some time poking around the enormous bed, exclaiming over the view and the wardrobe and the en suite bathroom with its claw-footed bathtub; Arthur spent that time sulking in an armchair, glaring broodily out across the winter-colored hills. 

**Author's Note:**

> I, like Merlin, have read too much Jilly Cooper. I blame Zoetrope for this entirely.
> 
> For anyone curious about the so-called "plot" of this story, it was basically going to be Edgar being a monster, Arthur attempting to spend most of his time hiding in the dovecote (and failing), and Merlin in ecstasies watching Everett, as predicted previously, fall in agonizing love with a plain-faced girl brought by someone else to the house party. You can imagine the once-planned shenanigans.


End file.
